


Deciding

by BearHatter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Someone gets punched, angstiness, more angstiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearHatter/pseuds/BearHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People snap, they break. It just happens. The tricky part, for both Sherlock and John, is deciding what to do afterwards.</p><p>"Once you’ve gone to that level, you rather expect the other person to take the lead, don’t you? Not that Sherlock had ever done this before—had ever had anyone to do this to—but he had expected to be fighting  John by now, at least still shouting back and forth, until someone had stormed off, until John stopped. This was supposed to be how it worked."</p><p>Cross posted from fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This largely came out of wondering what would happen if John snapped. Then I wondered what would happen if Sherlock snapped. Or if they snapped on each other…? Also, it came from reflection on what happens when I snap, which is rather John-like, if you were wondering. No ownership claimed here.

They were fighting again, in the kitchen again. Why were the fights always in the kitchen, where your feet got cold on the tile, which could only makes things a bit worse?

The argument had started not-so-unusually, when John noticed Sherlock’s predictably poor state of health during a challenging case and tried to reason him into eating, or at least drinking. Many favorite old lines came out, John quoting statistics on dehydration versus brain efficiency, Sherlock riffing on the odds of a case being solved as a function of the times it goes unsolved, and so on.

The thing was, it wasn’t just a normal argument, and Sherlock knew it, knew it was only a matter of time before John noticed too. When the pause came, he knew, felt it like the calm before a storm, no deductions needed.

“Hang on, Sherlock… your pupils are over-dilated. What…”

Sherlock didn’t reply, let the Army Doctor take in all the symptoms, let him make his own deductions. He wasn’t surprised when John’s eyes quickly narrowed in understanding: he was expert in his field.

He was surprised, however, at his own sudden boiling raging anger when John gingerly, disgustedly, pushed up Sherlock’s sleeve far enough to reveal the track marks. He released the fabric and then started quietly, “Sherlock, you’re going to destroy yourself, and you owe the world more.”

Then there was a lot of yelling, so much and so loud that the always-there alien part of Sherlock’s brain wondered if the neighbors would report it, while the rest of him was shouting that he didn’t owe anyone anything, that he was an adult, that he was different, that he was bored! And right over him, John was yelling back such John things, about responsibility and health, and descriptions of the druggies he saw at work every day—“They’re ruined and they’re pitiful, and I don’t want that to be you, you great idiot!”

And Sherlock drew back his arm and punched John in the face. Hard.

John stumbled back against the counter, but did not fall. He didn’t retaliate, either, which was impressive given the soldier’s instincts that were surely drilled into him and surely took great control to hold back. No, he just stood there, all emotion suddenly gone from his face, but not the stoic look he so often wore like a transparent mask. He looked coldly calculating, and for the first time since he’d met him, Sherlock couldn’t tell what John was thinking, and that turned all the anger burning in his chest to a cold lump in his stomach. 

And he realized that after making this one desperate drugged move, after using physical violence on his only friend for, what, for caring too much, Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Once you’ve gone to that level, you rather expect the other person to take the lead, don’t you? Not that Sherlock had ever done this before—had ever had anyone to do this to—but he had expected to be fighting John by now, at least still shouting back and forth, until someone had stormed off, until John stopped. This was supposed to be how it worked.

But now, it seemed, John had stopped, only without the leaving, and he just kept looking at Sherlock, that detached assessing expression the only thing Sherlock had to analyze, and it told him nothing. It was in stark contrast to the vivid bruise slowly spreading over his jaw, his split lip trickling a little blood. John had not made a move to wipe it.

Sherlock felt the tension unbearably, he wanted John to hit him, wanted to know what he was thinking, wanted to tell him that he hadn’t meant to hit him, he just. And he wanted John to hit him.

Sherlock opened his mouth, not quite knowing what he was going to say, just knowing he needed to break the silence, and this was not normal for him, not any of it. “John, I—“

He was immediately cut off by John’s hand, which he had raised in a quelling gesture, simultaneously tilting his head and closing his eyes, like he was listening for some elusive sound, his brow furrowed in slight concentration, no other expression intruding on his features.

So Sherlock waited, waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for John to do something, anything, preferably something violent or telling. But he didn’t, and so Sherlock could help breaking the silence again (again, and he never broke the silence, the silence was his friend and it had betrayed him, just like he had—but he couldn’t finish the thought just yet). 

“What are you thinking?” It was rough, rushed, as he blurted it out before he could be hushed, and he himself winced at it.  
John didn’t hush him, just straightened his head, lowered his hand, opened eyes that were still cool and steady, and before he spoke Sherlock had enough time to realize, with a jolt, what John Watson he was facing. This was the soldier.

John just said one word: “Deciding.” It was so detached, so clinical, so simple, and it sent Sherlock’s brain spiraling into different patterns of thought.  
Was he deciding whether to hit him back? How to retaliate? His next course of action? What kind of person Sherlock actually was? Whether or not he should stay? All these options and more spun through Sherlock’s head in a kind of panic, the kind where you really wish you could turn back time, the kind where you know what’s happening is your fault, but you still don’t want it to happen.

He was speechless until John turned to go, when he realized that the only bearing he’d had on John’s “decision,” whatever it was about, was punching him in the face, and that really wasn’t acceptable.

Even then, though, all he could say was “John? John!” No clever arguments, no redeeming words, and it wasn’t enough, because John kept walking in measured footsteps to his bedroom and shut the door so quietly Sherlock could barely hear it from the front room.

 

Sherlock was not good at waiting. He stood in the kitchen a few more seconds, wondering if this was what shock felt like, and how a blanket might ever possibly help, and basically trying to think about anything but what John might be deciding, before spinning to snatch up his coat and vanish from the apartment to go to the second-to-last place he wanted to be.

When Mycroft answered the door, sizing him up in seconds, Sherlock almost turned and left, but Mycroft seized his sleeve and dragged him in. My, aren’t the Holmes brothers being unusually physical tonight? said a small snide voice sounding suspiciously like Moriarty from the back up Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock remembered that it was like that sometimes, coming down off of the drugs and hearing strange thoughts, but he forgot to make a snide comment about Mycroft’s weight or lack of umbrella before it was too late and every second he hadn’t spoken had been counted and catalogued.

Mycroft watched him for one more moment, the door already shut (when did that happen?) before folding his hands. “Well, brother. How badly have you screwed up now?” he said in the most unconcerned way possible, but Sherlock could tell from the dip of his chin that tea was inevitable. Sherlock couldn’t think of a time he’d wanted tea less. Tonight, though, he followed his brother into the sitting room.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft ‘s legs were crossed, his umbrella tilted against the nearby wall, his tea cup a measured distance from his saucer, and all these things told an unwillingly observant Sherlock that his brother was concerned. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to not notice things just for a moment, at least.

Mycroft sipped his tea. “So. You struck him.”

Sherlock said nothing, did nothing in response. It was stupid to state obvious things.

“You’ve hit him before,” Mycroft pointed out. “During the… Adler Case, for example. It wasn’t a problem.”

Sherlock declined to give him the pleasure of asking how he knew that, but he did open his eyes. “That was different. It was for a case. And he hit me back.”

Mycroft set down his tea cup gingerly. Sherlock’s was still untouched on the table. “Hm. Yes. Put you in a headlock in fact, as I recall.”

Sherlock waved this aside as unimportant. “The point is, he knew it was for the case, and he had no problem hitting me back. It was… impersonal, I suppose. A friendly scuffle.” He said the words like they were foreign to him, speaking an alien language, and yet he longed for what they represented.

“Two characteristics that would seem to be at odds,” Mycroft said lazily, but his fingers were steepled, showing his deep focus. “And this time it was personal. Oh dear, how like a movie tagline that sounds.”

Sherlock leaned forward suddenly, with sarcastically wide eyes. “Are you trying to lighten the mood, brother? I’m afraid your comedic skills make that about as likely as you lightening your girth.”

“You’re deflecting,” Mycroft observed. “Just how bad is this?”

For once, Sherlock did not know. He stood and paced lithely to the window, leaned on the sill. Mycroft followed him with his eyes. “He said he was deciding.”

“Deciding what?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock slammed a hand on the sill. “I’m only here because…”

“You thought I might be able to help you figure it out. Odd,” Mycroft mused, “It’s usually the other way round. And you haven’t come to me for help since you were 11.”

Sherlock turned around. “Other way… John’s come to you for advice before?”

“About you, yes. Only once or twice, at first, but lately it’s been… more often.”

“Since…” began Sherlock, but he didn’t finish.

“Quite. Since.” Mycroft did that thing of his, the half-smile that wasn’t smiling, and then he looked away, a sure sign that he was as serious as he could get. “Substance abuse isn’t only hard on your body, Sherlock. It’s hard on those who can see what you’re doing to yourself.”

“Is this meant to be a one-man intervention?” Sherlock forced a sneer, but his heart was racing.

Mycroft stood briskly, facing his brother over only a few feet of carpet. “No, no. Clearly John already tried that, and I’m not looking for a matching blow to the face.” Sherlock’s hands were shaking now, and even when he saw Mycroft look at them, he couldn’t make them stop. He was hearing the word ‘deciding,’ over and over in his head, making him look up sharply at Mycroft’s next words.

“As for his ‘deciding,’ it could be that John is thinking about whether he really wants to watch you destroy yourself.”

“You think he’s going to leave.” Sherlock’s balance seemed to be going off-kilter. He wondered if it was because of the drugs, and put one of those shaking hands back on the windowsill to compensate.

“I think he’s thinking about it.” Mycroft watched him carefully. “I think, dear brother, you may have a decision to make.”

Sherlock stood a little straighter. “I did not come here for abstracts and platitudes, brother. What are you talking about?”

Mycroft returned to his sofa, opening up a newspaper and effectively ending the conversation with his next words. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock. You know very well.”

He was right. And Sherlock left.

 

John or drugs. The decision before him was obvious. And yet Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could do without either of them. Ridiculous, said the cold logic. I’ve lived without both of them for most of my life. And yet.

He was pacing down the street again, breath fogging in the London air, and when his feet turned of their own volition towards the sometime-home of the Baker Street Irregulars, he nodded at them slightly in understanding. Of course this was his decision. It could never have been anything else.

 

John was still in his room, sitting at his desk. As he glanced around, he reflected on how little time he had spent in here since he’d moved in. He really only came in here to sleep. His desk had barely any use; who knows why, when he was constantly harassed when writing . He caught himself smiling fondly, then dropped the expression immediately and leaned back in his chair, sighing. Sherlock was a terrible flatmate, for so many reasons, but John liked it, Heaven help him. He liked Sherlock, and seeing him turn to drugs… relapse, he supposed it was, since he’d obviously done them before, but John hadn’t been there, so this wasn’t familiar, wasn’t okay.

And he’d thought he might be enough for Sherlock. The thought didn’t make him proud, but it was the truth: the very first time he’d heard Sherlock had done drugs, during that ridiculous fake drugs bust, he’d thought to himself, Well that’s done now, of course, now he has flatmate to keep him from being bored or lonely, to keep him too proud to go back. It was a foolish thought, and John was a doctor, knew the patterns and the draws of addiction, but it hurt anyway.

John got up from the chair and moved to his bed, moved slowly, like his leg pained him, before he remembered and forced it into obedience. He lay on top o the covers, ran a hand over his face and winced when it caught his split lip.  
Part of him said he should put some antiseptic on it. Another part wanted it to get infected. He compromised and got up to run a wet washcloth over it, dabbing away excess blood.

“Deciding,” he’d told Sherlock. He had been in an ice cold rage, as angry as he ever got, more angry than Sherlock had ever seen him. He had tried so hard, had to focus so much on not letting words that could cut and ruin spill out of his mouth, striking at every vulnerability he knew Sherlock had, and that had been more difficult than restraining his soldier’s physical instincts, but that one word had slipped out, with all the cruelty of truth, none of the context to soften it.

John put down the washcloth and looked into the mirror, wondering how he could even start to weigh the costs/benefits of staying, getting to see Sherlock but seeing him all wrong, versus leaving, avoiding the pain and the arguments and the shock of seeing his best friend ruin himself.

The phone rang, then, and John went to go answer it—but should he answer it? What if it was Sherlock?—but Sherlock never called, just texted, so he picked it up to look at. Mycroft? Mycroft never called either—so he answered it immediately.

“Mycroft? You never call. If this is about Sherlock—”

“John. There’s been an… incident. You may wish to come to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, 4th floor. If you like, I can send a car.”

Mycroft never paused like that.

“An incident? What’s happened to Sherlock that’s got him in the hospital, you know he can’t stand them—” he was babbling, he noticed, avoiding the very answer to his question, but luckily, he was interrupted.

“John, given the events of today, I will understand if you don’t wish to come see my brother.”

John knew for a fact there had been no surveillance cameras around that day. “Did he—did he talk to you about—no, no, I’ll take a taxi, I’ll be there soon as I can, of course—St. Bartholomew’s?”

“Yes. Good. I…” there was another uncharacteristic pause. “I think that is best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a bit of a cliffie… but it was getting long and I couldn’t resist. Luckily, this time, I’ve already started the next chapter and I know exactly how it’s going to go, so the wait should be much shorter! If I had a tiny virtual megaphone I would march around cheerfully shouting “Review! Review!” into everyone’s virtual face… Seriously though. Feed me. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hospital resolution, absolution, restitution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has definitely been one the darker things I've written, but I hope it's been kind of hopeful too; it's a lot about communication, I guess. And a lot of the problems in it are close to home for me. (Not to the extreme of, like, drug problems, but just... conflict, you know?)
> 
> A special thanks to my only commenter so far, ArwenOak! That comment was the impetus to get this last chapter finished and up.

When John got to the floor Sherlock was on, Mycroft was already there, leaning on his umbrella, waiting for him. Knowing the Holmes brothers, he could very well have calculated to the second when John would be arriving, but still, for Mycroft to be waiting, in such a normal environment, no entourage or intrigue… it added to his aberrant behavior, making John nervous.

            “It was an overdose, John,” Mycroft said bluntly. It was probably the kindest way to say it, but it still struck John like a blow. He took a step back, but absorbed it like the soldier he still was.

            “I—“ he had trouble speaking, and cleared his throat before starting again, “I see.” He couldn’t manage anything else for a few minutes at least, and Mycroft (of course) seemed to observe that, sweeping on to details.

            “There should be no lasting effects, an… Irregular, I believe you call them?... found him in time for his system to be flushed. There is no doubt it was self-inflicted, I am informed. The amount was… not enough for a conclusive suicide attempt, but certainly more than…” Mycroft hesitated, a rare enough occaision to startle John somewhat out of shock. “Well. He is here in Hospital, obviously.”

            “Yes,” John said shortly. “I…” he looked down and cleared his throat again. “Do you know why?” He looked back up at Mycroft.

            “My brother’s decisions are not yours,” Mycroft said in the confident way of his, not betraying a hint of the hesitation he had displayed before. “I am aware of your disagreement, and I know you should not hold yourself responsible any more than I would for my discussion with him shortly thereafter.”

            Just like Mycroft, to casually see and cut to the heart of him and send him forth into battle. “Thank you,” John said distractedly, “Where is he?” Mycroft silently stood aside, gesturing to room E4 behind him. Anthea was leaning on the wall beside it, but for once John paid her no attention as he swept through it, and so missed the sympathetic look shot his way.

 

            The heart monitor seemed loud at first in the otherwise silent room, but it soon faded into background noise as John approached Sherlock’s bed. He looked smaller than usual, worn and pale, familiar strung-out circles under his eyes. The hospital gown did nothing to cover up the track marks on his arms.

            John sat down on the chair next to the bed and let out a long, shaky sigh. He couldn’t keep doing this. “I can’t keep doing this,” he informed the unconscious form in a conversational tone. “I refuse.”

            Just that quiet statement had Sherlock stirring, slowly waking. “J’hn?” he slurred before his eyes were even open; picking up on some obscure indicator of scent or precedent or sound, John assumed. Then he looked up at John, face a little dismayed. He did so hate being caught unawares.

            “You’re in the hospital,” John informed him quietly, “After overdosing on cocaine. The doctors were able to flush it out of your system. There’s no indication of complications or lasting consequences.”

            Sherlock looked a little more awake now, but he just nodded slightly instead of his usual slew of responses. His eyes were wide and a little unfocused as he looked around the room, assessing to whatever degree he could. “That—wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said after a minute, sounding confused.

            Even John was surprised by the avalanche of emotion that crashed into him at that statement: gratitude and relief that Sherlock hadn’t—hadn’t attempted the unthinkable; frustration that he _kept doing this_ ; anger at being jerked around by this, that Sherlock had, what, made a dosage mistake? With that huge mind of his? Was he too busy _wasting_ it to _use_ it?

            John just shook his head with it all, shook his head and tried to swallow it down, because that was just the English way to handle it, wasn’t it. Finally he stood. “You can’t keep doing this. What was this, a calculated move to jerk me back into line? I _know_ you’re not stupid enough to dose yourself this badly, and I don’t have to keep staying and witnessing the consequences.” He nodded and turned to leave, feeling the ache of it as he went, before a high, distressed noise stopped him.

            Sherlock scrabbled at John’s sleeve, dragging him back, normal grace and aloofness lost to the drugs and drowsiness still fighting his system. “No, no—it wasn’t—it was just to be the last time, I just wanted one last time, and no more, I promise, I thought I calculated correctly but the drugs, I should have taken into consideration—“ his voice was high and strained, and cut off completely with wordless relief when John half-collapsed on the bed next to him.

            They were both shaking at this point, the bed almost quivering along with them. John had brought a hand up to cover his eyes, pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said hoarsely, eventually, “I don’t even know what to say.”

            Sherlock closed his eyes. His head was still swimming, and he let his hand grasp John’s wrist more firmly; it grounded him. He tried to analyze the question, the thousands of other stimuli in the room, but most of his brain was still off-line, and the rest was oddly focused on that one point of connection. “Say…” he replied finally, “Tell me what you’ve decided.”

John let out a choked laugh. “Sherlock Holmes. Always the detective. I should have known.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and fixed on John’s, stilling his laughter with their stillness. They normally flickered over everything. They were beautiful and varied in this light; John had never gotten a chance to look at them this close and long before. After a minute of this, of Sherlock pinning him down with his eyes while he collected himself, he spoke: “I’m not being a detective right now,” he was annunciating carefully, “I’m being…whatever we are.” He snorted unhappily, frustrated with the slowness of his brain. “I’m so tired,” he muttered accidentally.

John reached down to grip his wrist right back., “Yeah,” he said, “Me too.” There was a long few minutes of silence; not uncomfortable, but heavy. “As you’ve made your decision,” John said slowly then, “I suppose mine is to stay. You know that.”

Sherlock nodded. He did know that, it was why he’d done what he had, sworn off what he had. “I just needed to hear it,” he said, in one of the most honest admissions of his life. John ducked his head to hide the watery smile touching his lips; he had a feeling this conversation would be written off to drug after-effects if he ever brought it up again.

“Well then,” John said to the ground. “I suppose that’s it.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said in that infuriating, endearing smug way of his, and he was already on his way to sleep.

Looking at his face, John could almost believe it was that easy. Feeling the loosening hand wrapped around his wrist still, long and willowy and delicate, he did know it would be worth it.

“For what it’s worth, John, once my brother says he’ll stop, he generally has the will to do it,” said a drawling aristocratic voice behind him, and he turned his head to see Mycroft. Of course, he’d been listening in. Looking carefully, John could see the cracks in the veneer showing his great relief.

“Well then, that’s worth a great deal,” John said stoutly. He’d know plenty of drug addicts in his time, mostly patients but also a few old friends suffering from PTSD. It wasn’t an easy affliction, and it took great will to buck. If anyone had that will, though, it would be Sherlock.

And John’s stubbornness could make up the difference if it had to, he decided then and there.

Mycroft didn’t comment as John stood and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, only made a mental note to tell his security chief he needn’t expect either of them to visit so often.

They could help each other, now.


End file.
